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based upon facts. International politics, like domestic politics, rests upon differences in policies, which in turn depend upon conflicting national interests. The expert in international affairs is to be respected in proportion to his accuracy in understanding and reporting those conflicting policies; but his opinion as to their respective merits is not necessarily valuable. He is as likely as any one else to be swayed by consideration of the interests of the nation for whose policies he is consciously or unconsciously an advocate.

In the second place, the managers of such an institute should be on their guard against the assumption that nationalism is necessarily an evil and internationalism always a virtue. There are, in fact, three kinds of internationalism. One is that which would do away with all national boundaries and erase all national distinctions and blend the whole world in one universal economic or political organization. Those who favor this are so few and so theoretical that they may be practically disregarded. Then there is the internationalism which recognizes the necessity of international differences, but so affects the minds of its believers that they regard their own nation as presumably in the wrong on every disputed point. Internationalists of this creed applaud race patriotism in and enevery other race but their own, courage national patriotism in every other nation but their own. They plume themselves on their "international mind," and believe that their adoption of foreign points of view is proof of their membership in the exclusive class of the intelligentsia. It was noted by Rear-Admiral Huse that at the Williamstown Institute attacks on American politics constantly elicited laughter and applause from the American audience. This form of internationalism is neither intelligent nor wholesome. It is wholly unscientific because it is wholly sentimental. There is a third kind of internationalism, which ought to be cultivated. It is that which recognizes the conflicting interests of nations, enables one to see those conflicting interests from different points of view, and by the very process of clarifying those conflicting interests makes clear the obligation which each nation owes to its own citizens or subjects as well as to the other nations with which it has to deal. As that man cannot be a good citizen who does not recognize his fundamental obligations to his own family, so that

man who does not recognize his obligations to his own country cannot be a good internationalist.

According to plans announced at the close of the session, the Williamstown Institute of Politics is to be put upon a permanent financial basis. It is therefore

I

likely to outgrow some of the crudities that have characterized its infancy. It has done good service in providing an open forum for a broad discussion of international questions. There is no reason why at the same time it should not be in spirit and purpose American.

What's Wrong with the Railroads?

By LAWRENCE F. ABBOTT

Contributing Editor of The Outlook

AM not sure whether this article will ever be read by more than two people the pleasant lady who is taking it at my dictation and myself who am writing it, largely to relieve my feelings. For it is about the vexatious railroad problem, and the managing editor of The Outlook, while generously giving me a free hand in my weekly contributions, has laid down only one rule for my guidance. He has asked me to avoid all controversial political and economic questions on the very reasonable ground that The Outlook is constantly dealing with such matters in all sorts of articles,

and that its readers are entitled to some relief from disputatious argument. He has delicately intimated that my job, if has delicately intimated that my job, if I have any capacity for so doing, is to afford them such relief.

Now, there is no more tender or irritating subject of political economics before the American people to-day than railroad transportation. The railroads are the arteries of the Nation. If they harden, clog, and cease to function, the country will suffer an apoplectic stroke which will result in a paralysis of our social, industrial, and political life that will make the panics of 1873, 1893, and 1907 look like minor ailments. And yet Alexander D. Noyes, the foremost contemporary American authority on financial history, says in his book, "Forty Years of American Finance," that "the panic of 1873 left the country's financial and commercial structure almost a ruin," and that "the panic of 1907 . . . resembled ... intimately the panic of 1873."

All sorts of remedies are being proposed for the disease of arteriosclerosis from which the railroads appear to be suffering-higher rates, lower rates, cutthroat competition, uniform pooling, compulsory consolidations by law, voluntary consolidations prompted by the tary consolidations prompted by the legitimate ambitions of capital, strengthening the power of the Inter-State Commerce Commission, and limiting its powers. Some of these remedies are quack

nostrums, some of them are proposed by experienced experts who have sincerely at heart the welfare of both society at large and the railroad builder and investor individually. The sum total is that all concerned are anxious and perplexed.

It is no wonder that railroad owners and operators, harassed by burdensome and often unjust taxation, by multiplicity of conflicting laws, by the rising costs of materials and labor, and by the animosity of shippers, farm blocs, and legislators (who are often as selfish as the old-time railway king), are in a state of confu

sion.

I do not propose to add to this confusion by suggesting any remedies of my own. A good and sufficient reason is that I am not competent to do so. But I am convinced that one way in which railway managers can successfully meet the rising tide of opposition and avert what I agree with them in regarding as the dangerous social and economic fallacy of Government ownership and operation, is by developing and extending a genuine policy of service. Some railway managers, especially of the younger school, are living up to this conception. Unfortunately, there are still left some powerful operators who appear to think that railroads can be run on the take-itor-leave-it principle. I propose in this article to note some of the little pinpricks, coming within my own ken and experience, which irritate the users of railways. For I am inclined to believe that much of the public opposition of which railway managers not unjustly complain is based upon irritation rather than upon reasoned objections.

I do not suppose that Mr. "Pat" Crowley, the very efficient president of the New York Central, who literally knows railroading from the ground up, will ever see this article. If he should, he might be surprised that I feel a little. irritated against his railroad, in spite of the fact that it is one of the greatest,

soundest, and most successful systems of the United States. I have lived on his railroad, or, rather, on one of its subsidiaries-the West Shore Railroad-for nearly forty years. I say nothing about its dilapidated New York City terminal, with its rain-beaten train platforms, which no Western city of one-tenth the size would tolerate for a week, because the building of a new terminal would take a large amount of capital, and railroad stockholders deserve consideration as well as passengers. Possibly, too, he may be waiting for the foolish city of New York to build a bridge across the Hudson, so that thousands of daily commuters and automobilists may not have to depend on fog-bound and ice-thwarted ferries.

But I have a real complaint. The tracks from Cornwall to New York are used jointly by the New York Central and the New York, Ontario, and Western, tickets being good on all the trains. of either line. The other afternoon I took an Ontario and Western express, hurrying to keep an engagement in New York City. When about twenty-five miles from New York, we began to slow down and stop, slow down and stop, thus dragging along until I finally asked the porter what the trouble was. He replied that a "local," which stopped at every station, was just ahead of us. Of course, under the very commendable block-signal system every time the "local" stopped at a station we stopped by the green fields of the roadside. The porter further added, with some irritation, that this particular idiosyncrasy of train-despatching was not of infrequent occurrence. Now, no one has greater admiration than I for train-despatchers. They are skillful and hard-working officials, with a terrible burden of responsibility resting on their shoulders. But I submit that timetables ought to be arranged so that accommodation trains do not make express trains, frequently, if not habitually, half an hour late. At all events, I know that I was half an hour late in keeping my engagement, and I am afraid the next time the Inter-State Commerce Commission renders a decision adverse to the New York Central Railway the natural and unregenerate man within me will chuckle a little as he did when he heard the story of the little branch line that ran into the country from Essex Junction, Vermont. The train was creeping along when a traveling salesman, in a hurry, hailed the conductor, saying: "Can't you

go faster than this?" "Oh, yes; much
faster." "Why don't you, then?" "Be-
cause I'm under contract to stay with
the train!"

Another complaint. Last week I
wanted to escort a favored guest to my
home, a distinguished elderly judge for
whom I think nothing is too good. In
order that he might see for the first time
the picturesque Bear Mountain Suspen-
sion Bridge across the Hudson and the
incomparable Storm King Highway, I
took the main line of the New York Cen-
tral to Peekskill, where an automobile
met us and carried us the rest of the way
across the bridge and over the highway
twenty miles or more to Cornwall. I
wanted my guest to travel in the utmost
comfort, so I tried to get seats at the
Grand Central Station for the parlor-car.
But they could give me places only in the
sleeping-car. These I took because it
gave my guest a chance to smoke in a
comfortable smoking-room. When we
got into the smoking-room, some fifteen
minutes before the train started, the
electric lights were so dim that my guest
could not read his afternoon newspaper
in the darkness of the bowels of the mag-
nificent Grand Central Station. I called
the porter and asked if he couldn't give
us more light. "I am sorry, sir," he
courteously answered, "but the batteries
are run down." "Well, what are the
poor passengers on this sleeping-car go-
ing to do when night comes," said I.
"Bless you," he answered, "nobody ain't
going to sleep on this car. It's going to
be taken off at Albany and the batteries
'll be recharged there."

Now, here was a sleeping-car made to
do duty as a parlor-car on a daylight
journey, and, to make the matter worse,
the lights were defective. The judge
took the annoyance good-naturedly, as
he always takes discomforts of travel,
and said it reminded him of an experi-
ence of his brother, a prominent New
York lawyer who, many years ago, had
his summer home on a branch line of the
New Haven Railway under the notorious
Mellen régime. His New York train
almost invariably missed connections at
the junction, the branch-line train often
pulling out when the main-line train was
in sight. This necessitated a long and
tedious wait for another train. Finally
the New Yorker decided to do something.
The next time the connection failed he
hired an automobile to complete his jour-
hired an automobile to complete his jour-
ney and, with a courteous letter explain-
ing the matter, sent the bill to the rail-

road.
letter. No reply. A third time he wrote,
saying that if the bill were not promptly
paid he would bring suit and have the
matter tested in the courts. He was a
man of ample means and meant what he
said. The bill was paid. But the
branch-line train went on ignoring the
connection indicated in the time-table.
Finally the lawyer repeated his protest
and sent a bill for the automobile that
was necessary to complete the journey.
Again no reply, again a second letter,
and, finally, a third letter, threatening a
test in the courts. The second bill was
finally paid. Not long after this second
experience his New York train was five
minutes late, and he asked the conductor
if they would make connections at X
junction. "You bet we will!" replied the
conductor with emphasis. "We have or-
ders!"

No reply.
No reply. He wrote a second

This anecdote encourages me to hope that I may accomplish some good by recording the annoyances related in this article. In one sense they are, of course, unimportant. They do not affect the safety of passengers, but they do affect their comfort, and comfortable customers are much more likely to be friendly to an industry than uncomfortable ones.

Statistics of ton-miles and of the low percentage of accidents per thousand of passengers carried do not always allay irritation. Twenty-five years ago I

crossed to England and back on the two crack steamers of that summer belonging to a transatlantic line whose slogan, in answer to any complaint was, "We never killed a passenger." On the westward voyage one evening some meat was served which our olfactory nerves decided was older and more firmly established in the dignity of maturity than the company itself. The gentleman sitting next to me at the table happened to be a British army officer of high rank. He called the chief steward and, putting his monocle in his eye, dryly remarked, "Steward, I wish you would kill a passenger occasionally and give us fresh meat"! This bit of satire reached the ears of the management and, doubtless combined with the keen competition of the Germans, caused the company to change its attitude a little. It is just as safely managed as ever it was, but to-day it lays emphasis on the attention which it gives to the comfort and happiness of its passengers, in which feature it may truly be said that no line surpasses it. Verbum sat sapienti! as Terence once remarked.

T

A London Literary Letter by C. LEWIS HIND

NO each country its national game: to England cricket, at Lord's and the Oval, where the great matches are played, and on village greens throughout the land.

A lush green field. Upon a shaven patch,

Stolen from daisies and buttercups, was played

The Saturday match.

These three lines, the opening of a cricket poem of the day, may be taken as a hint that this Literary Letter deals with cricket in song and history.

But first let me refer briefly to two great cricket functions that have helped to make this summer month glorious. One was the two days' match between the boys of Eton and Harrow, a society gathering, a dress affair; but, in spite of silk hats, white spats, and the smart dresses of sisters, sweethearts, and mothers, a function in which cricket is

treated with the highest respect. Looking at the keenness of the young cricketers, at the wicket and in the field, and the unwritten law, which is the beginning and the end of cricket-"Play the game" -many a veteran must have murmured the old tag, "The Battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton."

The annual two days' match between Eton and Harrow is-promise. Some of these young cricketers may be champions of the future. The annual three days' match between Gentlemen and Players is--performance. Here you see the great Hobbs (he holds the place in cricket that "Babe" Ruth holds in baseball), and when he is batting there is not one of the twenty thousand spectators present but longs to see him make another century (one hundred runs in an innings) and so equal the number of centuries made by the great W. G. Grace during his famous cricketing career.' That black-bearded champion still lives in spirit on every cricket ground in England. Here, for this is a Literary Letter, I may interpolate a poem by Wilfrid Thorley that I take from the "Observer" of a week ago. It is called "A Ghost at Cricket:" A tall man with an eye of flint, An arm that never fails

And cuts the bowler through the slips
Or drives him to the rails.
He drives him to the rails, my boys,
And strokes a beard of black,
Or pats the turf along the pitch

Until the ball comes back.

Since this was written Hobbs not only equalled Grace's record on August 17, but on August 18 surpassed it by one century.

A tall man and an easy man

That takes a little run
And sends opposing batsmen back
Ball-beaten one by one.

And keeps his ten good men in heart
With cheery nods and grins,
As though his softened eye should say
"We outs will soon be ins."

A tall man and a mighty man,

Nor heart nor thews remain,
But in the mind of thousands more
He plays the game again.
He plays the game again, my boys,
With ten good men and brave
Above the grass that cannot hold
His spirit in the grave.

In the pavilion of the Oval, the Surrey Country Club ground, there is a monument to the Surrey cricketers and groundsmen who fell in the War. Following the names is this, "They Played

the Game."

THI

HINKING of "W. G."-so W. G. Grace was always known-that ghost at cricket, one's mind dwells on the early stalwarts of this great national game-the Hambledon Club, on Broad Halfpenny Down, who about 1780 could beat all England at cricket. John Nyren, who "kept the pub" of the Bat and Ball, was the historian of the Hambledon Club. He is enshrined in "The Dictionary of National Biography;" his book is called "The Young Cricketer's Tutor." It was edited by Charles Cowden Clark in 1833. Winchester School has just performed the great service of purchasing Broad Halfpenny Down, which is twenty-five miles from the School. There, last month, a match was played, to signalize the event.

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Hornby and Barlow were famous Lancashire players whom he saw in his youth:

AT LORDS

It is little I repair to the matches of the southern folk,

Though my own red roses there may blow;

It is little I repair to the matches of the southern folk,

Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.

For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,

And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,

And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host

As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro:-

O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago.

"Sportsmen in Paradise" would, of course, be included. It was published in "The Westminster Gazette" during the War, signed "Tipuca:"

They left the fury of the fight

And they were tired.

The gates of Heaven were open quite,
Unguarded and unwired.
There was no sound of any gun,

The land was still and green;
Wide hills lay silent in the sun,

Blue valleys slept between.
They saw far off a little wood

Stand up against the sky.
Knee-deep in grass a great tree stood-
Some lazy cows went by.

There were some rooks sailed overhead,
And once a church bell pealed.
"God! but it's England," some one
said,

"And there's a cricket-field!"

And Sir Henry Newbolt'sThere's a breathless hush in the Close tonight

Ten to make and the match to win-
A bumping pitch and. a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned

coat,

Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his captain's hand on his shoulder

smote.

"Play up! play up! and play the game."

And "The Cricket Ball Sings," by E. V. Lucas, which he prints in "The Open Road." In that delightful anthology he also includes a passage by John Nyren beginning, "There was high feasting on Broad Halfpenny during the solemnity of one of our grand matches. Oh, it was a heart-stirring sight-!"

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B

The City Gate A Stone Monument and a Steel Miracle

The noble architecture of this entrance to the Nation's capital merely revives the grandeur that was
Rome. The modern miracle lies beyond, in the vast system of interlocked switches and signals-all
operated from one spot-by which the safe and speedy movements of trains are assured

The Miracle at the City Gate

By CHARLES FITZHUGH TALMAN

[graphic]

EYOND the city gate the trains thread their way through a lab

yrinth of shining steel without accident and without confusion. How is this feat accomplished? Locomotives carry no steering gear. Their pilots (better known as "cowcatchers") do not pilot. Every swerve from the direct path means a switch purposely set in advance. Each halt is in obedience to a semaphore duly displayed at "stop." Time was when a railroad yard swarmed with switchmen. Machines have replaced every one of them. Nevertheless in some invisible way a human brain must direct the endless interweave of trains arriving and departing, trains making up and unmaking, engines flying hither and yon. How is it done?

By all the rules of logical procedure to which humanity does not conform, the guide-books that devote a whole rhapsodical page to twentieth-century replicas

Union Switch and Signal Company

The Tower" at the New Union
Station, Chicago

Such structures are variously known as switch towers, signal towers, interlocking towers, cabins, or merely "towers"

of Roman baths and basilicas at the city gate should expend at least two upon the supreme miracle of the railroad-the perfectly controlled and co-ordinated system of switches and signals in the station yard. The traveler who notes with satisfaction so many other contributions to his welfare at the modern terminus should be impressed, above all, by the marvelous arrangements for getting his train in or out. In short, the word "interlocking," instead of mostly suggesting directorates to the minds of peregrinatory Americans, should inevitably summon up pictures of a mechanical contrivance as romantic and as necromantic as the telephone--the interlocking machine, and the interlocking switch and signal plant of which it is the nerve-center.

The history of this device is not found in popular chronicles. The story begins in England, but culminates in America.

Laziness is the mother of invention. A

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This interior view of Cabin A at the Pennsylvania Station in New York City shows at the right the train director and some of his assistants, and at the left two of the levermen who, under the director's orders, operate the interlocking machine-the amazingly ingenious device for setting switches and signals at a distance without the possibility of false indications or a conflict of routes. The upper row of levers controls switches and the lower signals. The levers interact in such a way that whenever one of them is moved all others whose movement would cause an inconsistent adjustment of switches or signals are locked in position. On the wall above the machine is an illuminated track model, in which miniature incandescent lights register the movements of trains through the yard

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If you have a taste for mathematics, figure out the number of possible routes for trains through this labyrinthine yard of the Central Railroad of New Jersey at Jersey City. There are about 200 scheduled train movements in each direction every day, besides many movements connected with the making up of trains and the pulling out of empty coaches after their inbound runs. Careful planning of routes is necessary to avoid serious delays. All switches and signals, except in outlying parts of the yard, are controlled electrically from a single tower, but their actual movements are effected by small compressed-air machines, many of which can be seen in the picture beside the tracks

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